The Abnormalities of Potters
by Hay Zelle
Summary: I, Vernon Dursley, am not normally wrong. Ever. The fact that I was so far mistaken over my wife's use of the word "witch" when describing her sister just proves how very, very abnormal the whole business of meeting the Potters really was.


The Abnormalities of Potter

By Hazelle

"I have some disturbing news, Vernon," Petunia tells me, and I can tell from her tone of voice that she is very, _very_ disturbed by something. I like to think I'm a very perceptive man like that.

"What is it? It isn't from Grunnings, is it?" I ask, feeling a sudden flood of panic over my job. I'm the best drill salesman there, and if there were suddenly an issue, a _smudge_ on my record, there would be hell to pay.

"No. No, it isn't from work. It's from. . . My sister."

My wife always gets very upset when she has to think about her sister, Lilac, I think is her name. Usually, she just doesn't mention her. I've never met this mysterious sister, of course. Petunia has described her as being a real witch: vulgar, no sense of decency, that sort of thing. We didn't go to her wedding last summer, to some undoubtedly worthless punk of a boy. I wouldn't want anyone like that for relatives, and am more than happy to have not seen them before in my life.

"Lilac has contacted you?" I ask stiffly. Anything that bothers my Petunia bothers me. "Well I hope you gave her a piece of your mind, Petunia."

"Lily is dropping by tomorrow," Petunia says, and I hear the venom laced into to every word she says. Not many people can tell when my wife is upset and angry.

"D-dropping by?" I stutter. I don't usually stutter, either. This can only mean something bad. "You _consented_ to this meeting? You _hate_ the woman!"

Petunia looks very put out. Her face is flushed, her lips are pursed, and she's even wrinkled up her nose in disgust. These people must really be awful.

"I can't do anything about it now, can I?" she cries, waving a threatening fist in the air over her head. "The freaks don't keep a telephone!"

I tremble at the idea of living without a telephone. How normal is that, exactly? This is the twentieth century, and if you can't appreciate the comforts of technology that come with that, you can just get out. I search for a way to brighten Petunia's mood, and my able minded self quickly finds a plus side to the whole to-do.

"You'll be able to get rid of that junk your mother left here that belongs to your sister. That'll be nice, won't it?" I say matter-of-factly. The best thing to do when dealing with the unpractical is to be _more_ practical. That's my own little proverb, and I've found it to be a life saver in plenty situations.

"I could've tried to mail it to her, couldn't I?" Petunia counters, and her temper is rising fast. "Not that her lot uses addresses _or_ the postal system!"

To this, I draw a blank. "They aren't homeless, are they?" I ask, and I recoil at the thought. I worked hard my whole life, unlike some, and have a fine home in a fine neighborhood. To bring homeless wanderers into this midst goes against everything that I stand for, which is quite a lot.

"Vernon, I've been meaning to explain something to you for a long time now," Petunia tells me, her voice cautious and soft now, like she thinks she might hurt my ears if she speaks too loudly. It makes me very nervous when people talk like that. "My sister is. . . She's a witch, Vernon. A real one."

And here I was, thinking she was about to tell me something important and potentially horrible! I make a funny spluttering sound in place of a laugh, but wish I hadn't when I catch Petunia's eye. She looks in a right state of malhumor, which is too bad because she's the one making the jokes. I don't put much store in jokes.

Still, the look on her face kills my laughing. Why does she look so serious? "I know, you've said she's awful. I will keep them out of the house, and you can bring her things downstairs. I won't let her say anything to you, or speak to you at all," I assure Petunia, but her expression becomes anxious and pained. "How about this? They'll knock, and we'll just chuck the box out onto the lawn. You won't even have to see your sister." If I do say so myself, that is the best proposition I have made to date. No one has to meet anyone else, and none of the neighbors will think that we are involved with a couple of weirdos.

"Vernon. . . I knew this would be a problem! Ever since we were children, I _knew_ her strangeness wouldn't keep to itself forever!" Petunia crosses her arms, and stalks to the window that looks into our neighbor's back yard. Watching neighbors has always calmed Petunia, but she doesn't look at all comforted now.

"Surely she wasn't always strange?" I ask, feeling immediately bad for my wife. "You grew up in a decent home!"

Petunia sniffs, and turns back to me with a horrible look on her face, but she also looks determined. "My sister is a witch, Vernon. Witch, as in witchcraft. Spells and cauldrons and the like."

I spend the next few minutes laughing and laughing. It isn't April, is it? Because this is truly April Fool's worthy. For a minute, I thought Petunia was serious. Then I wipe my tears away enough to see that she looks very serious.

"You can't mean– you don't mean that she–" I am having trouble grasping this concept and verbalizing it. Very strange, especially for a salesman of my status. "Not like, abra cadabra and hocus pocus and fiddlesticks and so on?" I finally choke out.

"Yes. Just like that," Petunia says, and I bristle away from her. I didn't mean to back off, but the reaction makes her begin to cry, and I hurry to pat her on the back.

"There, there," I say, trying my best not to let my bafflement get the better of me. Petunia is a no-nonsense kind of a woman. Whatever she is getting at is quite over my head, and I don't think I care to know what she's on about. Not that I will tell her that.

"I've tried to keep them away!" Petunia sobs into my shirt, and she bangs a sharp fist on my shoulder. "But she said she's coming no matter what!" More sobbing and fist-beating follows this. Then, "What will the neighbors say?!"

I shake my head. She can't see me, but I just keep shaking my head. This is thoroughly confusing, I must say. I haven't been this far confused by anything in my life. I'm not an easily confused man.

I don't know how long we spent, discussing what the neighbors would or wouldn't think, what they would or wouldn't say. In any case, Petunia decided to busy herself by making dinner, and I headed down to the living room to watch the news. At least weather reports are never strange, that's all I can say. The day the weather does something out of the ordinary will be a sad day indeed for modern civilization.

We didn't speak about Lily for the rest of that evening, and I had almost forgotten about the whole thing when BAM! it was tomorrow, and I was sitting in the living room in my suit and tie, awaiting the arrival of the sister in law.

"I'm so sorry about this, Vernon," Petunia said soothingly to me.

I jump. The shock of what Petunia had told me about her sister has finally sunk in, and I realize that I've been sitting here, staring at a blank wall for several minutes. I can think of only two outcomes of this meeting. Neither of them are very nice. Either my wife is raving, in which case I will have to have her carted off to the loony bin, which, I assure you, will give me no pleasure at all. If Petunia isn't raving, and she really does have the craziest family I've ever heard of, well, I'm not sure what I will do with myself. Probably take a leaf out of Petunia's book, and pretend we have no connection, I imagine.

"Vernon?"

I grunt.

"Please say something."

"Stop stalking the window, you're making me nervous," I grumble, still not looking away from the bare wall. Petunia is being far too antsy for me to remain in any level state of mind.

"Fine," she snaps, her shoulders slumping slightly, and she comes over to sit on the couch next to me.

No sooner has Petunia found her seat, then the doorbell rings. She leaps off the sofa as though someone has burned her, and I pull myself up as quickly as I can.

"Vernon!" she squeaks, and I confirm her fears with a dark nod: The Potters have arrived.

I square my shoulders, straighten my jacket sleeves, and march to the door. Petunia picks up the cardboard box in her arms, preparing to chuck it out into the yard as soon as I open the door. We decided earlier that that was probably the wisest idea. Somewhat nervously, I put my hand on the doorknob and pull the door open enough so that Petunia can throw the box through.

"Whoa!" someone yelps as Petunia lets the box fly.

I wait for the sound of cardboard scraping on cement, or at least the sound of something rattling and clunking as the box hits the ground before I close the door. The sound doesn't come, and I lose my composure long enough to let a red headed woman slip inside.

"Petunia?" she asks cautiously, looking around me. I hear Petunia snuffle in rage.

"Oh. You're here," is all she says.

"Yeah. . . Well, is this the stuff Mum left me?" this woman, Lily, asks. She speaks like a teenager! _Yeah_ and _Mum_, indeed. What's happened to this country that adults have to use such informal euphemisms? Then I remember that this woman is probably crazy, like Petunia told me. They've probably never heard the word 'yes' _or_ the word 'mother' where she comes from, which I hear is a very dodgy place.

In my offense at her use of language, I let myself space out. It isn't until I hear Petunia shriek in fear that I snap to, and look out the door, which Lily is pointing towards. There is a tall man standing out there, Mr. Potter, undoubtedly, and he is standing next to the floating cardboard box.

Floating cardboard box?

"WHAT IN THE HELL?!!" I shout, and I back quickly away from the door, shielding Petunia as I do so. "Get off my property, you, you, you–!"

"James!" Lily hisses to her husband, who looks as clueless and bewildered as I imagine any homeless madman would. "James, set the box down, we'll scare them spitless!"

"Oh! Right, sorry," Potter says, and the box lowers to the ground. I'm having trouble breathing at the moment. What I saw can't have been real. I am not the kind of man to be intimidated by the supernatural, because the supernatural does not exist. End of story.

"Who the hell are you?" I demand, looking from Lily to her husband.

"You must be Vernon?" Lily asks, looking at me. I narrow my eyes in acute dislike. I can't let these people know that I'm having hallucinations.

"I gave you your things, now leave!" Petunia calls shrilly from behind me.

I nod in agreement. Lily looks slightly saddened, and her husband looks offended. Imagine that! Two good-for-nothings like that, thinking they can guilt us into staying for dinner or something!

"Actually, Petunia, I was thinking we could visit for a while," Lily begins, and I my head aches with the suggestion of spending any more time in the company of these people. Lily continues, "I mean, I haven't even really met Vernon, and you haven't really met James, so I thought maybe we could. . . have tea, or something."

I am not a bonding kind of fellow! I do not associate with people who keep floating boxes and dress in– in long _robes_! Great Scott, I have only just now noticed these people's garb. Lily is in violet, and her husband is in green. They are both wearing robes. This is beyond ugly, this is downright eye-offending!

"Thought that, did you?" Petunia bursts out, and she pinches my shoulder rather hard. "Well I don't want anything to do with you or your magic, Lily, you can just turn around and-"

"Magic?" I splutter, spraying spit everywhere, but not caring. That is how unnatural this whole situation is: I splutter, and don't care about it. Unheard of. "Magic? Is that what you think you people are?"

"Yes, sir," Mr. Potter says to me. It is deeply annoying for me to be spoken to like this by a person of his position. Not only has he addressed me as _sir_, but he has answered with a _yes_. This is rude for three reasons. Firstly, 'yes' and 'sir' are used by civil, respectful people, which this man is not. Secondly, 'sir' is used when speaking to cranky old farts, which I am not, which means he is mocking me. Thirdly, his reply of 'yes' means he must _think_ he is magical, which can only mean he's cracked.

"Please, Petunia, we just want to spend some time with you," Lily pleads, as though this is perfectly normal. "I'm going to keep bothering you until you introduce me to your husband!"

Lily smiles. Petunia looks sour. "Fine," she says, and I feel like I'm about to have a heart attack. "Fine. Just one cup of tea, and you must promise not to bother us at our home again. Ever."

Lily's smile falters. That was good thinking on Petunia's part, I must say. Let them think they are being treated to tea! If they accept, they have made a verbal contract to leave us and our family alone in future.

"Tea would be excellent," Potter says with a grin, and I am unable to tell if he actually thinks it is excellent. Cheeky little whelp.

Lily throws an exasperated look at her husband, but nods. "Tea it is. I swear, you won't see us again, we'll stay out of your life, if that's what you decide you want."

It seems too easy, but I don't say so. I'm just grateful to have tricked them into leaving so quickly. Petunia leads the way to the living room, and I can see that she's very stiff and alert, like she is expecting something. I'm actually very calm at the moment, considering that I've just agreed to tea with these people.

"This is the living room," Petunia says blandly, her eyes narrow. "Don't touch anything. I'll go make the tea."

"I'll go with you," Lily pipes up, and I hear a definite note of eagerness in her voice. Petunia has noticed it too, clearly. She's looking annoyed.

The two women leave, and I shut the door behind them. Potter is settled down on the couch already, like he owns the place. I lumber over and sit in my armchair, which sits opposite the couch. This way, I don't have to sit near him, _and_ I can watch his every move. He surveys me through his glinting glasses, and I notice with a pang of disgust that his hair is in a right awful state. Ever heard of a brush, buddy?

"So," he says suddenly, making me jump. "You're a Muggle, huh?"

I stare. He stares. I glare. He looks uncomfortable.

"Of course not," I snarl. There's no playing games with Vernon Dursley. He can't trick or confuse me, no sir. I fix him with my meanest look.

"Oh, Lily says you are," he tells me smoothly, and he looks around my living room with a skeptical look on his face. That look is a deep insult. He has probably never even seen the inside of a house before!

"Well, if I'm a Muddle, what does that make you?" I ask cleverly. My sharp wit has never failed to come up with a good response when dealing with cocky youngsters like this fellow. In the world of marketing, it is essential to place yourself in a high, commanding position when dealing with those who see you as a superior, as I can tell James Potter does.

"That makes me a wizard," he replies with a wink.

"What rubbish," I say, more to myself then to Potter. "People like you belong in a rooms with padded walls, that's all I have to say."

James has fished something out of his pocket, a sort of polished, wooden baton. I stare at it, and an amount of foreboding builds up in my chest. Even as he begins to wave it, I recoil, but I can't take my eyes off of it. A plate has appeared in front of me on the coffee table, a plate of beautiful tea biscuits.

The door to the living room bursts open before I can do anything more then stare from the cookies to Potter, who seems to fancy himself a magician. He's still got his baton pointing at the cookies.

"James, what are you up to now?" Lily asks, and I force my eyes away from the cookies to look at the doorway.

"Showing Vernon, here, my baking skills," he replies, and I wrinkle my nose. Then my senses come back to me, and I jump to my feet.

"I've had enough of this witchcraft nonsense!" I shout at the top of my voice.

Petunia looks horrified, and nearly drops the tray of china cups she's holding.

"You said no you-know-what!" she cries, looking accusingly at her sister.

"James, I promised her no more magic," Lily says, and her husband shrugs.

"Sorry, Petunia," he says, and this time he sounds more like the childish wastrel he is.

Glaring, Petunia sets down her tray of mugs, and Lily, smiling nervously, sets down the tea kettle. After witnessing the appearance of that vile tray of biscuits, I decide that I want no part of this tea party. I'm feeling queasy at the moment, and I've yelled myself hoarse already.

Lily takes a seat next to her husband on the couch, and pours out four cups of boiling tea. Petunia accepts hers, and proceeds to hover by my chair, taking deep sips from her tea. I grab my own cup, but don't touch it. You can't have tea without proper biscuits, and any biscuit that appears from out of nowhere on command of a strange man wearing robes and a cloak is definitely not a proper biscuit. Potter is sipping his tea, and surveying Petunia and myself quietly.

"Well. This is nice," Lily says at long last. She's fiddling with a strand of red hair, and squirming a little. Perhaps if she's so uncomfortable, she should take her bloody box of garbage and _leave_. I have to remind myself that it's only one cup of tea, and we'll never hear from them again. The trick is to just repeat it to myself over and over.

"Splendid," Petunia says, her voice indicating the opposite.

"Vernon, what do you do for a living?" Lily asks me. Had I been sipping the tea, I would have choked. Typical of a panhandler to want to know how much money I would be making! Well, she won't get any handouts from me.

"I work for a large corporation, I'm sure you've heard of it– Grunnings? We produce drills and drill accessories," I respond in my well polished speech that I usually save for important acquaintences and nosy neighbors. "I'm the top man down at Grunnings, you know."

"Grunnings? What do you do there?"

I cringe at that Potter's lack of subtlety.

"It's a drill company. I sell _drills_."

"Oh, those are tools, aren't they?" he asks interestedly, and looks over at Lily for confirmation. He's making a motion with his index finger. . . Possibly to communicate his idea of how a drill is used. Crude.

"And what exactly do _you_ do, Mr. Potter?" I growl through clenched teeth. Despite my mouth being closed, a spray of spit rains down. There is just something about that man that makes me lose all control of myself. Thank heavens I'll only have to speak to him this one time.

"I work in the Magical Games and Sports Department at the Ministry in London," he says casually, as though a word of what he said made sense. "I've been developing a racing broom there recently, and–"

"Forget I asked!" I say loudly, and get to my feet. "Ho! Would you look at that? I've finished my tea." I pour my tea in the potted ficus tree that we keep in the living room. "It's time you leave. I've had enough of you and your– your _abnormalities_!"

Lily looks shocked, and I notice that she has barely had a chance to start her own tea. As for her messy-haired, nonsense-spewing counterpart, he looks both confused and relieved. This only makes me angrier.

"Go on, OUT!"

"But–" Lily begins.

"Leave! And take that infernal box with you!"

"Sorry to–" James says.

"OUT!!!" I roar.

The Potters look at each other, exchanging openly bewildered looks. They rise out of their seats at the same time I leap out of mine. Trying to look fearsome and commanding, I glare at them as they leave the room. Lily smiles shyly, and waves back at Petunia, who has been quiet for quite some time now. James pulls out his magic baton– wand, or whatever– and the cardboard box with Lily's things in it follows them out of the room, gliding along about four feet above the ground.

The front door closes behind them as they leave, and I can see both Potters standing in the front yard, talking to themselves. Lily casts a glance at my house, her eyebrows raised. In the blink of an eye, they are gone. Where they went is, delightfully, none of my business, and I am glad to say that I will never have to see hide nor hair of Petunia's sister or her brute of a husband. I shall now proceed to pretend I have no connection to them, as Petunia does.

"Biscuit, Vernon?"


End file.
